


Circumlocution

by thewintertrash



Series: Mnemonic [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:55:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewintertrash/pseuds/thewintertrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cir·cum·lo·cu·tion (n.) the use of many words where fewer would do, especially in a deliberate attempt to be vague or evasive.</p><p>-</p><p>If Steve kept calling things complicated, Sam swore he was going to have that Avril Lavigne song stuck in his head for the rest of the day. Damn that early 2000’s pop song for being so catchy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I spend more time trying to name these things than actually writing.
> 
> ANYWAY I'm sure a lot of you are wondering exactly how long this is gonna be which is... haha woo (sits down) anyway. Probably much longer. I mean Bucky and Steve have barely started working things out, which... yikes. At least twice as long as it currently is. Whoops.
> 
> (I nearly named this friendship is magic.)

When Steve woke up, and that meant actually waking up with being aware what was going on around him, not just vaguely acknowledging his surroundings in a drug induced haze, he was, well. Unimpressed.

Oh, he was in a hospital.

_Again._

Sound the alarms, everyone, Steve Rogers had landed himself in a hospital. What was this, the fourth time this _year_ he’d had to subject himself to the United States healthcare system? He didn’t even bother opening his eyes at first, just let himself be annoyed with the beeping and the smell of antibacterial cleaner which was unique to hospitals everywhere. He wondered how the hell he was going to pay _this_ visit off. He’d just barely scraped by with the last cold, and rent would be due again soon in that never ending cycle, and he wouldn’t be able to work like this. He’ll probably have to lower his dignity and beg people on the internet to commission him. It’s not like this was the first time.

He might as well take stock of the damage. He couldn’t even really remember how he got here. Oh boy. This was going to be a doozy.

He experimented with first trying to open his eyes, and _ow._ His left eye was completely swollen by the feel of it, which was probably the cause of his pounding head. When he tried to reach a hand up to touch it, he found that his left arm was also completely useless, which explained the weight on his stomach. At least it wasn’t his drawing hand. Although, he’d actually gotten pretty good at painting with his left from the previous times he’d had broken a bone in this right hand.

Had he gotten into a fight? His throat also felt sore as _fuck_ wow, so maybe an asthma attack then? It seemed worse than usual, which was mildly concerning. Maybe two asthma attacks? He knew he must be on some pretty powerful painkillers (the dollar signs added up in his head) and it was still incredibly painful, worse than perhaps he’d ever felt it. That was… unnervingly new.

Oh boy. He was a mess. If only Bucky could see him now. He’d rip him a new one. Maybe like, twelve new ones. That’s how deep of shit he was in. His body felt heavy, weighed down the only way lying unconscious for hours in a hospital bed could do. He wiggled his toes, and that was good, nothing too serious happened to his lower half, though he was still worried about his throat, because it felt like someone had—

Wait.

Oh shit. Oh no.

Oh… oh my _god._

The heart monitor spiked as Steve tried sitting up abruptly, causing the nasal cannula to dislodge, which he batted away, annoyed. There was no way last night happened. There was no way he had met an assassin with a metal arm in an alley last night and it turned out to be Bucky, Sergeant James Barnes who had been dead for five years and one month.

He touched his throat, which was so sore, so incredibly sore — the bruises he needed to see the _bruises_ on his neck and he remembered very clearly now the imprint of a hand on his skin because _Bucky who couldn’t remember him tried to strangle him to death with his metal arm._

Metal arm. Oh god. Oh no. It had been five years and one month and Bucky was dead but he _wasn’t_ because that was Bucky’s face and Bucky’s eyes and Bucky’s voice behind that mask — no it wasn’t a mask it was a _muzzle_ — and he had remembered Steve in some way, how else was Steve not dead, he had grabbed Steve’s inhaler and you had him on the ropes—

He took off the heart monitor that was clipped to his finger and he fell out the bed when he tried to stand up, but the on suite bathroom, he had to get to the mirror in the bathroom he had to see to make sure, he had to make sure that last night happened, that Bucky was…

Two nurses came into the room as Steve was trying to use his IV stand as a sort of walking stick, half crawling, half stumbling his way over to the bathroom. It was only seven feet away but it might as well have been a mile.

They tried to coax him back to bed but he couldn’t speak, literally opened his mouth and his throat just made this dry croaking sound but he had to _see,_ goddammit, it didn’t matter that his head felt like it was about to explode and he couldn’t breathe or speak and he was completely useless in every way but he had to do this. He couldn’t… he didn’t know what he was going to do if it hadn’t been real. He didn’t know he’d do if it _was_.

He waved the nurses off, tried to close himself in the bathroom because they didn’t realize how important this was. And in the mirror—

For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. He raised his right hand (his right hand because his left arm was in a sling, Bucky had broken it by accident, he remembered that now) and touched his face, from angry, stitched together wound on his forehead to the bruised and swollen flesh of his left eye to his split lip to the bruise in a shape of a handprint wrapped around his neck. It was burned onto his skin like an afterimage of a photograph, deep blues swirled around purples and edged with greens and he’d always liked the color blue but now he felt like he was floating underwater and he had no idea where the surface was, he’d always been a pretty good swimmer, but now…

But… Bucky…

He gripped the sink hard as his legs threatened to give out underneath him. One of the nurses found her way to his side, speaking soothingly but he couldn’t hear past the rushing in his ears. She rubbed circles into his back, but he was going blurry, the world was going blurry around the edges as he stared and stared at his reflection.

The nurse walked him back to the bed. He sat down. She was asking questions. He couldn’t answer. This wasn’t happening. Bucky wouldn’t. Bucky _wouldn’t._

The blue paint glinted in the light as Steve took his mask off. The metal arm glinted in the light as he held a gun to Steve’s head. The metal arm glinted in the light as he held out Steve’s inhaler.

He sat on the bed for a long time. Or it felt like a long time, anyway. At least he figured out that he could open his left eye a little, that it hadn’t been completely swollen shut like first thought. He knew the stages of healing bruises, that palette his favorite to paint his body with. Red to blue to purple to green to yellow. There shouldn’t be green yet, he thought. His brain couldn’t connect the dots, buzzing with pain and painkillers, slowing down everything around him. He had a blanket around his shoulders. He wasn’t sure when it got there.

His mind floated through a thick fog. It was hard to see through the haze. Maybe he didn’t want to see yet.

“Heya kid!”

Steve dragged his eyes from staring at the wall across the room to Hawkeye, who strode into the room still wearing dark sunglasses even though he was indoors.

Tick tick boom. Hands dabbing the blood off his face. Bucky screaming as the arrow he caught electrocuted him.

He looked back at the wall.

“It’s good to see you up and awake and all,” he said, sprawling into the chair next to the bed, pushing his sunglasses back on top of his head. “I told the Night Nurse that you’d be trouble, and I was right, seeing how you crawled out of bed the moment you woke up.”

The smell of coffee mingled with the antiseptic in the air.

“Howya feelin’?”

Steve dragged his eyes back to Hawkeye.

“That great, huh? You tried drinking any of that yet?”

There was a cup of room temperature water in his hand. He vaguely remembered a nurse handing it to him. He took a sip. It burned all the way down.

“How long,” he croaked, and took another sip of water, “have I been here?”

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for about three days now. Kind of gave us a scare there for a minute, with your lungs filling with fluid and that whole contracting pneumonia for the fourth time thing. Though I suppose that’s partly our fault for not bringing you here in the first place.”

He remembered protesting. It really wasn’t their fault, since he hadn’t been about to let himself be pinned to a hospital bed without a fight.

“And Bucky?”

“There it is. He’s proving to be a difficult character, but that was expected. I know I wouldn’t take too kindly to be locked in a cell either. But he hasn’t tried to kill anybody yet, so that’s something. Mostly he just sits and glares at anyone who tries to come near him.”

Jesus Christ. He was still locked in that tiny cell where Steve had left him. And that was three days ago.

He rounded on Hawkeye. “I’ve been here _three days_?!”

“May I remind you, you were coughing up the mucus that was filling up in your lungs and had a 103.4 degree fever.”

Steve stared at him, eyes wide and body frozen.

“It was _bloody_ mucus,” he clarified. “Your temperature is still at 101.5.”

Steve ignored him as he fumbled with numb fingers trying to get the blankets encasing his legs off of him — he needed to get the fuck out of here.

“Whoa! Whoa, hey there, hold on before you hurt yourself,” Hawkeye said, jumping out of the chair and holding his hands up to Steve.

He couldn’t articulate the panic welling inside him, starting just below his ribcage and filling his chest to the brim. He’d left Bucky alone in that tiny cell for _three days._ How could he do that to him? He’d promised he’d be there for him, but he was failing Bucky, even after everything all he was good for was letting Bucky down and couldn’t — he couldn’t get the fucking _blankets_ off him — this was too important and he’d never hated his body so much than in this moment.

“Just breathe for a sec, okay? We told him what was going on, alright? We told him you were sick and couldn’t come to visit. Even brainwashed he seemed to understand, so don’t worry so much.”

Steve stopped moving and stared at Hawkeye.

“You believe me,” he breathed. “You believe he was brainwashed.”

Hawkeye stared back, before quickly turning and walking to the door. He glanced up and down the hallway before shutting the door to the room and striding back to the chair, pushing it closer to the bed and sitting across from Steve.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully. Things are — things are complicated, when it comes to the Winter Soldier. Right now, there are only five people here who know about his true identity: you, me, Natasha, Nick Fury, who is the director of SHIELD, and his assistant director, Maria Hill. And we need to keep it that way, at least for now.

“Basically, we think you fucked a lot more up than you realized when you interrupted his mission. You made him go AWOL, and that had surely made a lot of people unhappy. A lot of rich and powerful people. And if they haven’t already figured out that you’re the reason he broke through his conditioning, then they will soon.”

“And that makes me a target,” Steve said. Wasn’t that just his luck.

“Kind of _the_ target, but yeah. You catch on quick. So, mum’s the word on all of this. We’ve already cleaned up and repaired your apartment and broken your lease, everything has already been paid for, courtesy of SHIELD. Your stuff’s in storage until we relocate you, which consider yourself now in witness protection for the foreseeable future.”

Steve took a deep breath and let it back out slowly.

“Foreseeable future. That sounds like a long time.”

“Like I said — it’s complicated. We’re not sure exactly who in Hydra knows about the Winter Soldier, or who he reported to. And we can’t exactly let you to go waltzing down the street when there are a lot of people who want to get their hands on him. I mean, we could relocate you and give you a new identity, then you could live your life and not have to deal with any of this.”

“And leave Bucky? Not gonna happen.”

“I figured as much. Thought I’d at least give you the option.”

“Like I said before. We promised to look after each other. I’m not gonna leave him now, not when he needs me.”

“And you’re just stubborn enough to mean that.”

Damn straight. “Are the other people in my building safe?”

“They don’t know you were attacked by Hydra, if that’s what you’re asking. They were a bit shaken, mostly worried about you — like, weirdly worried, I’m half convinced they think you’re a Saint — but they know you’re alive in our custody. That means that, basically, if anyone does come snooping around, they’ll know you’re with SHIELD and under a bunch of security. We’ve also put up undercover security around the building, just in case that if anyone from Hydra does come prowling around, we’ll know.”

“I can’t go back. Or speak to them ever again.”

“I think that’s a little dramatic. You can call your friends if you want, just, you know, don’t tell them anything. But you can at least let them know you’re okay.”

“You don’t think that’ll make them a target?”

“Well, I’ll be honest kid, you don’t pose that much of a threat. If-slash-when they figure out you’re the one that made the Winter Soldier go AWOL, then they’ll probably want your death to be as inconspicuous as possible, and they won’t risk trying to get at you while me and Natasha — er, Black Widow — are around. So no dramatic hostage situations for you.”

Steve closed his eyes for a moment in relief.

“I want to see him.”

“Of course you do. How about we find you some pants first, though.”

“Strangely enough, you kinda get used to it.”

“Listen, if I can’t walk down the hallway without pants on, neither can you. Come on.”

~*~ 

“I’m Maria Hill,” a fierce looking woman with short dark hair said, holding out her hand. Steve took it.

“Steve Rogers.”

“I hear you’ve had a rough couple of days. How are you feeling?”

This was the assistant director of SHIELD, an organization even more notorious than the CIA for keeping secrets. He couldn’t trust anyone to be honest or not to have an ulterior motive.

“Better than I was.”

She eyed him up and down.

“Come, let’s walk. I trust Barton has briefed you on the situation.”

He glanced at Hawkeye. He had to assume that working with spies also made you one, sort of like a sink or swim situation.

“I’m now in witness protection because of what I know. Sounds simple enough.”

“Oh, if only it was. I’m coming with you because I need to see for myself how you two interact with the way he is. And, I need to ask for your help.”

Somehow Steve had a feeling he wasn’t going to like where this was going.

“If he does talk to you, you’ll be the only one,” she said, hitting the button for the elevator. “He hasn’t said a word since you left his cell three days ago, pretty much refuses to do anything besides pick at the food we give him and glare at anyone he sees. We need you to talk to him."

“You want to use my friendship to coerce information from him,” Steve said as they stepped into the elevator.

“Apparently Barton didn’t impress just how serious the situation is on you. Basement Level Four.”

“Steve Rogers does not have access—”

“Assistant Director override, Hill, Maria R.”

Wait a second — didn’t he have access before? He’d been out of it, sure, but Black Widow and Hawkeye didn’t need to override anything to go down to see Bucky.

“Hydra is no joke, and he may have information about some of their top players in his head. This isn’t me trying to ruin your relationship — this is me trying to save lives. This is bigger than you, Rogers. Even bigger than the Winter Soldier. If we can get ahead of them, scatter their resources, we’ll be that much closer to shutting them down for good.

“We need to know who’s been pulling his strings, so we can have more success stories like that woman and child you saved. Or would you rather have more dead bodies? Because Rogers, you’re only here because you might be useful. If you’re not going to be useful, then we’ll relocate you and you can say goodbye to Barnes.”

The elevator stopped, but Hill hit the door close button and turned to Steve, waiting for his answer. And not that she didn’t have good points, but Steve absolutely _hated_ being backed into a corner and having who he cared about used against him like this. He gritted his teeth.

“Fine. But you have to let me do it my way and just let me _talk_ to him first. I’ll try to see what he knows, but he’s been tortured for over _five years_ — he’s a goddamn _victim_ in all of this and you can’t forget that. Bucky… Bucky didn’t deserve any of this. He’s a good person and he’s been through hell, and I’m going to treat him as such. And if it has to take a little longer than whatever interrogation you had in mind, then so be it.”

Hill and Rogers had a stare off while Clint leaned against the wall of the elevator, relaxed and enjoying himself immensely. Hey, it wasn’t every day he saw someone stand up to Maria Hill and live to tell the tale. Rogers had bigger balls than he gave him credit for.

“Then I sure hope your way works,” Hill said, before hitting the open door button and stepping outside.

Steve was hit with a serious case a déjà vu walking down those post-apocalyptic honeycomb hallways, trying his best to keep up with Agent Hill’s long stride. Or maybe that dreamlike feeling was just the lightheadedness from the fever. Or the blood loss. He blew warm air on his hand, trying to rub feeling back into it. Maybe he should have asked to take a blanket down here.

Bucky was hunched in a corner of his cell and Steve realized at that moment he should have negotiated better terms with Agent Hill. You know, in exchange for Bucky cooperating, he’d get better living situations and such. Not that he had actually planned on asking Bucky for anything today, so he had time. And if they really thought they were going to ship Steve off somewhere and leave Bucky behind, well, they were going to be in for a nasty surprise of just how much of a pain in the ass Steve could be.

At least they had given him a shirt to cover up the awful scarring on his shoulder, though his left sleeve was still empty.

Hawkeye went up to the control panel. The doors slid open and Steve walked through without fear.

“Hey Buck,” he said, and offered a smile.

Bucky glanced at him but paid him no mind.

“Can I sit here?”

Bucky didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either, so Steve took a chance and lowered his aching body to the ground, keeping himself just out of arms’ reach in attempt not to crowd him.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get back down here to visit. I didn’t mean to leave you alone like that. My body just works against me in every possible way, but I guess I should be used to that by now.”

Bucky didn’t respond and it hit Steve, just then, that he had absolutely no idea what to say next.

His mind went completely blank as he scrambled for something. There was just so _much_ where did he even _start_? Did he just go for it? Just be like ‘hey how’s that brainwashing going for you’ or ‘did they knock you out when they put that arm on you’ or ‘did you think of me because I thought of you every day and sometimes I couldn’t get out of bed because I missed you so bad’? Because every one of those were terrible conversation starters come on brain do something useful for once in his life.

“Where are we?” Bucky asked, surprising Steve.

“We—” Steve started, before he realized he actually had no idea. “Hey Hawkeye, where are we?”

“The Triskelion, aka SHIELD Headquarters in Washington DC,” came the answer. It sounded like it came through some kind of speaker inside the cell, but Steve couldn’t see where it was. It did confirm his suspicion that everything in the cell was recorded and monitored, though.

“Washington DC,” Steve repeated to Bucky.

“Who did that?”

He blinked. “Did what?”

Bucky pointed at Steve’s face.

“That. I didn’t do that. I didn’t _do_ that.”

Oh. He was talking about Steve’s black eye.

“It was,” he closed his mouth. He started again. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Bucky tilted his head forward just a little and oh, Steve knew that murderous look. He’d seen it a lot, but when it was directed at him it was because he was trying to lie about exactly how sick he was or exactly how he got hurt. Usually it was because he didn’t want Bucky to worry about him, or worry about who’d done it, because he knew Bucky would try to get back at them. The only difference now was that Bucky might actually kill who’d given him this black eye.

“Seriously!” Steve insisted. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“I got, well, _welcomed_ to SHIELD this way by two agents — not Hawkeye or Black Widow — because they thought I was Hydra. But obviously I’m not. And they’re going to pay for my medical bills, so it’s all settled already, don’t worry about it.”

Okay, so he didn’t actually think they were going to pay for his medical bills, but it wasn’t a total lie either. Black Widow had made that threat, and if anyone were to follow through on something like that, it would be her.

“I don’t trust them.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Yes you _are_. You’re not safe here.”

Well, Bucky had him there.

“I’m safer here than I would be outside. And in here I get to stay with you.”

Bucky clenched his teeth and glared at the bruise on Steve’s neck and his left arm.

“I did that. Not safe. They thought you were Hydra because of me. I _did that._ ”

“It’s not your fault—”

“Get out.”

“Buck—”

“ _Get out!_ ” he snapped.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Okay,” Steve said.

He bit his tongue to keep from grunting in pain when he hauled himself slowly up off the floor.

“I’ll be back in a little while, okay Bucky? Like I said, I’m so sorry it took me so long to get down here. That won’t happen again.”

Bucky wouldn’t look at him, turned toward the wall.

“I’ll see if I can get some better conditions for you. You deserve better than this.”

Steve wanted to reach out, to touch him or something, just to prove that Bucky was _real_ and that he was _here_ , but he didn’t want to push his luck. Bucky asked him to leave, so he was going to respect that. So instead of laying himself on top of Bucky like Bucky used to do to him when he demanded attention, he took a deep breath and kept his chin held high when he left the cell.

He couldn’t resist looking back at Bucky through the glass wall between them.

“That went well,” Hawkeye said.

Steve turned and walked back down the hallway without a word.

~*~

Sam Wilson had noticed the shadow at the door pretty much the moment it arrived, and he was sure the vets in his session had too. It was hard to unlearn that awareness of your surroundings and the paranoia that came with living under the threat of attack at all times.

He went on with his closing speech regardless, as it was well into his group session that it had appeared. It had been pretty successful, in his opinion — Danny had spoken up on his own, and he almost never spoke up in group, Carlota talked about how well she was doing now that she’d gotten a therapy dog, and Rajeesh had shown up, which was a victory in and of itself. He was very proud of all the vets in his group, the old and new. He knew that recovery was a slippery slope, but they kept climbing anyways, and that was what mattered.

Afterwards the group dispersed into the hallway, and he finally got a good look at the shadow.

It only surprised him slightly that it wasn’t a fellow soldier that had been too shy or too late to make it to the session. He was short, probably only around 5’4”, and Sam could tell he was real thin, maybe a hundred pounds, which the three sweaters he was wearing underneath his jacket couldn’t hide. He still had a scarf on, even though it was relatively warm in the VA, and a baseball cap tugged on his head over straw blond hair. Just his stature would have made him stick out amongst these vets, a lot of which still kept up with some kind of fitness regime, but what really caught Sam’s eye (and everyone else’s) were his injuries.

His left eye was bruised and slightly swollen, but healing, it’d probably been at least a week or two since he’d gotten it. The cut on his lip was scabby, and he could see the stitches on the cut on his forehead and the bruising around it. His left arm was broken, or at least in a sling, which was an obvious lump against his ribs even underneath his sweaters. He looked exhausted, the kind that left you perpetually drained down to your bones, the kind you couldn’t scrub away with sleep. He saw the same weariness haunting the vets in his group.

Sam knew the ugliness that came from war, and how the vets carried some of it home with them. The violent nightmares and flashbacks that swallowed their thoughts could bleed into their lives, making them lash out at their loved ones, whether intentional or not. Everybody heard the horror stories of spouses being strangled in their sleep and of vets driving their families away because they couldn’t take the anger and the paranoia anymore. So Sam was slightly surprised that the shadow listening in to his session wasn’t a vet, but he wasn’t at all surprised that he was here.

Sam watched him blow on his hand for warmth out of the corner of his eye as he spoke with some of the vets after the session. He waited patiently in the corner and out of the way, letting the others take their time with leaving. Sam figured that was a good thing, as he always did make sure he was available to say goodbye to everyone, and whatever his shadow friend had to say, it would probably take a while.

The stragglers started to disperse, sneaking looks back at the guy (and he was so going to get asked about this next week, for all he insisted on privacy the lot of them were terrible gossips), and Sam wasn’t sure if he was going to have to take the first step to talk to his shadow friend, but it turned out he wasn’t that shy.

“Hi,” he said, walking up to Sam. He stuck out a hand. “Steve Rogers.”

“Sam Wilson,” he greeted, taking his hand, which while freezing, the grip was strong. Steve didn’t hesitate, or avoid looking him in the eye, as Sam suspected he might.

“I heard the last part of your session in there. I hope you didn’t mind me listening in, I know it’s obvious I’m not a vet,” he said, gesturing to himself like it was the punch line to a joke. “I liked what you were saying, though, about trying to pick things apart, taking the big stuff one step at a time.”

“Well, yeah, you know, it’s hard for anyone, not just vets, to visualize the big picture. Smaller steps, smaller tasks are much easier to tackle.”

Now that Steve was closer, Sam could see just how unnaturally pale he was and the deep bags that hung under his eyes. The cut on his forehead looked suspiciously like he’d been thrown into something hard enough that he’d probably gotten a concussion from it.

Steve nodded and took a deep breath.

“Look, Sam, I know I’m not a vet, but I was wondering if I could ask for some advice. It’s about my friend and _he_ is, so I’m not… I’m not looking for like, something weird, or unrelated or anything like that. Maybe we could go get coffee in the cafeteria? It’s kind of a long story — the coffee would be on me, of course — and if this isn’t a good time, I understand, I could come back, or I dunno, if you think I shouldn’t be here or that I should be talking to someone else, I understand that too, I just thought, you know, this would be a good place to start.”

“Sure, Steve,” Sam said, mostly to cut off his rambling. “I have time before I have to be anywhere.”

“You really don’t have to. I know you’re probably busy, and I know I’m not the type of person you’d normally be helping and I’m sure there are more important, um, more important things you could be doing.”

Sam was all too familiar with this kind of talk; he heard it from vets all the time. When it finally got so bad that they had to reach out, they try to talk themselves, and the person they ask, out of helping them. Warning bells of all sizes were going off in Sam’s head and in turn it spurred the need to do whatever he could to help this guy. Either he had to, or he had to find someone who could.

“I’d be happy to help Steve, really. It’d be no trouble at all. Lemme just go lock up the room real quick, okay?”

Steve opened his mouth, maybe to protest more, but seemed to think better of it.

“Thank you, Sam, it means a lot,” he said instead.

So Sam locked door and they headed downstairs. There weren’t many people in the cafeteria, it being three in the afternoon and between the lunch and dinner rush. Steve insisted on getting Sam’s coffee, even though Sam said it was no problem and the cafeteria coffee wasn’t worth making such a fuss over. They chose a seat near the wall, where no one would overhear them, Sam with a hazelnut coffee and Steve with some hot green tea.

Steve fidgeted in his seat, staring down at his cup. He licked at the scab on his lip, thinking hard. Sam figured he might have to prod the conversation along.

“So Steve,” he said. “When exactly did your friend get back?”

“Two weeks ago. And I don’t… I don’t know what to say to him. I was hoping I could get some advice on that.”

Two weeks sounded about for those bruises, Sam noted.

“That’s a wide topic there. Everyone comes home different.”

“Well, yeah, I know, but maybe just some general pointers?' 

Sam leveled a look at him. Like he could condense months of schooling in twenty minutes or less, let alone trying to work with messy abuse issues on top of that. “How about you tell me a little bit about him first. I could give better advice if I met him in person, though. Do you think he’d be willing to come down to the VA?”

Steve snorted. “No — sorry, that’s not funny, it’s just, you know. He’s a little, er, he’s a little tied up right now.”

“Okay…” What the hell did that even mean? “How about we start when he came back. How did that go?”

“Could’ve been worse,” he said, shrugging slightly.

“Well, it must’ve been pretty bad, for you to seek out help.

“It was—” He paused. “Sorry. I’m just… trying to figure out where to start. It’s kind of a long story.”

“You know you’re safe here, right? Everything you tell me is confidential.”

He furrowed his brow a little. “Yeah? I know that.”

“Is this also where you got those injuries of yours?”

“Yeah, but considering what could’ve been, I was pretty lucky, I guess.”

“No one’s lucky to get hit, Steve.”

“Well, no. But I’ve had worse, so.”

Oh boy. Had the abuse started before his friend went to war? There was definitely no way Sam was going to be able to unpack all the issues and possible victim blaming that went into Steve’s mindset in one coffee date. No one should be that blasé about getting hurt like that, especially by someone who they thought they could trust. Jesus, and the guy had only just gotten home and he already started this shit again?

“I work closely with a lot of vets here. I’ve seen a lot of ugliness in the world — I was a pararescue, so I’ve seen a lot what that ugliness can do to people in field, and now that I’m a councilor, I see the ugliness that sticks to you when you come home. Some people are able to pick it apart easier than others. Sometimes it can turn _them_ ugly, and they take it out on other people. It’s not your fault if they do.”

Steve furrowed his brow further, tilting his head a little. Then it seemed to dawn on him what Sam was implying.

“No, no, wait, that’s not — Bucky didn’t — it’s not — I’m not being _abused_ , it’s nothing like that, I promise, it’s just, it’s — well. It’s complicated.”

“When it boils down to it, it’s actually not.”

Steve looked him dead in the eye. “SHIELD’s involved.”

Sam paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

“When I said it could have been worse, I mean I could be dead. Bucky saved my life. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but I mean he did sort of — but it wasn’t _really_ him, it’s just,” he made a frustrated noise and shivered. “It’s complicated.”

“How about you start with the night he came home? Was he supposed to be home or did he come home early for some reason?”

Steve pursed his lips. “Neither, technically. That’s the… that’s the complicated part.”

If Steve kept calling things complicated, Sam was going to have that Avril Lavigne song stuck in his head for the rest of the day. Damn that early 2000’s pop song for being so catchy.

“Okay, so when was he supposed to get home?”

“Five years ago?”

“Five years ago,” Sam repeated.

“Yes.”

Sam waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

“Was he with SHIELD the whole time?”

Steve snorted again. “God, no.”

“So where was he then?”

“Somewhere… er, somewhere not good.”

“And now he’s back?”

“Sort of?”

“And is he… okay?”

“Not really?”

“Not really how?”

“He was… there was… uh… he’s not really… really himself.”

“How so?”

Steve opened his mouth, and then closed it, struggling on what to say. He seemed like a straightforward guy, so Sam didn’t know why Steve was beating around the bush like this, unless maybe he was afraid of getting his friend in trouble for hitting him.

“You know, it’s really hard to convince me it’s not abuse if you don’t tell me exactly how you got those injuries of yours.”

He made another pained noise. “I know, and I’m sorry, but there’s a lot I can’t say, not because I don’t want to, but because I’m not _allowed_.”

“Because SHIELD’s involved.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. But I promise you it’s not abuse. Bucky would never, _ever_ do something so awful. I just didn’t really think this through, and I understand if you want to leave because I’m wasting your time. I just,” he sighed again, and looked to Sam, helpless. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”

Michelle at the front desk always said Sam had a bad habit of collecting strays, and goddammit she was right.

“How about you tell me about your friend before he went to war. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I can do that,” he said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

“Okay. Then let’s start with how you two met.”

“Bucky was my best friend, always has been,” he said, diving right in. “We met back in fifth grade — I was even smaller back then, if you can believe it — but there were these seventh graders picking on the younger kids, and I can’t stand bullies. They had no reason to be picking on these kids, so I go up to them, tell ‘em to knock it off, ‘cause they’re just bein’ mean to be mean, and I can’t stand those kinds of people. They didn’t take too kindly to me tellin’ ‘em to step off, ‘cause they were bigger and thought they could do what they wanted. So they started fighting with me, three against one, ‘cause they’re cowards who didn’t fight fair.

“But then this other kid comes outta nowhere and pushes them away from me, and between the two of us we get ‘em to back off ‘cause of the ruckus we were making would’ve drawn the teachers. He turned to me and, me not being sure who he was, ‘cause no one ever helped me when I got into fights like that, put up my fists and was ready to fight him if need be. He was just like, ‘whoa there, I come in peace’ and introduced himself with his full name, middle name and all, which is funny when a ten-year-old is doing it, but told me that everyone just called him Bucky. We were kinda attached at the hip after that, or at least that’s what my Ma always said.” 

“You two were close, then,” Sam said. Not ‘are’, but ‘were’. Maybe that’s where it got ‘complicated’.

“Oh yeah. He was my best friend. He was always there for me, even when I was getting us into trouble. ‘Cause, see, it’s kind of — of a pattern, you know, of me getting into fights. I’m not one to back down, especially if they were being rude or terrible to someone. Bucky always said I was gonna give him gray hairs by the time he was thirty because of all the shit I would get in to, especially because I’d get sick all the time too. But I mean, like, this one time this guy pulled off a girl’s hijab and called her a terrorist, what was I supposed to do? Just stand back and let it happen? No way.”

This Steve was staggeringly different than the Steve who stood in the corner of the VA center, a shadow in the door. He was passionate and strong with his conviction, blue eyes clear and focused. Honestly, it was refreshing.

But while Sam still wasn’t convinced that it _wasn’t_ abuse of some kind, even he had to admit that didn’t feel quite right, especially since it seemed that Steve more than Bucky was the fighter. It didn’t rule it out completely, though. War could do nasty things to people, and he also knew he was getting a very biased story from Steve.

“He also, oh man, Bucky was terrible about spinning these stories, you know? He loved chatting up tourists, being a different person with a different past every time. He loved messing with people any way he could. He, oh my god,” Steve said and started smiling.

“This one time we were in this restaurant, right, and there was this older guy and he was being so terrible to his waitress, like complaining endlessly about his food and speaking over her and even going so far as to insult her weight, and this poor girl is nearly in _tears_. So Bucky takes his nearly full glass of coke and sits at the table with the guy. Starts waxing poetic to him, like he _knows_ he knows this guy from somewhere, he must be famous, and this guy is so completely flattered and rambles on about himself, for nearly twenty minutes while blowing off the waitress and complaining to Bucky about the service, about how they never hired pretty waitresses anymore. Eventually Bucky excuses himself for a moment, to go to the bathroom or something, and he gets up and takes his coke and ‘accidentally’ trips and ‘accidentally’ pours it all over the guy.

“And he starts patting the guys with napkins, apologetic right, except he says, ‘sorry, but I tripped over your massive fucking ego there pal’. I have never seen someone go so red in the face. We may have been kicked out after this, but while wiping off the guy Bucky had picked his wallet and left a hefty tip for the waitress, so it all worked out.

“And then this one time, and I will swear to my grave that it was all his fault, but we were in the same gym class senior year, and I hated gym class. I’m not athletic and I have real bad asthma, which running around really didn’t help. We had this awful P.E. teacher too — he had this bum knee so he’d just ride on his bike around the track and blow his whistle at the kids running on it, especially me, since I always came in dead last. Well, long story short, the last week of senior year, we may have broken into his office and stolen his whistle, and we may have encased it in Jell-O, and then we may have used frosting to right ‘BLOW ME’ in all capital letters on the thing of Jell-O. We also might’ve replaced his bike oil with shoe polish. We almost didn’t walk at graduation because of that, oh my god, my Ma was so pissed, but they couldn’t _actually_ prove that it was us, so we got to walk. My Ma knew, though, and she made us go around the apartment building and clean out everyone’s bathrooms. It was so worth it, though.

“And then this one time—” Steve glanced at Sam and cut himself off abruptly. “Sorry, I’m getting off topic.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten to talk about this in a really long time, so it’s just…” He shrugged again.

“It’s okay, man, really.” 

Sam knew firsthand how things could get bottled up inside you for so long and then when given the opportunity to talk about it, it all comes out like word vomit. It’d probably been five years since he’d let it out. That’s a long time to be stuck inside your own head.

“I don’t want to waste your time.”

“You’re not wasting my time, I promise. I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“We were always there for each other,” Steve said, changing topics abruptly. He looked off into the distance and shivered again, clutching his jacket a little closer. “We were the only ones we had. Bucky’d been orphaned when he was sixteen, his mom and little sister had been hit dead on by a drunk driver, and his dad had been killed in the war a few years back. His mom had been dropping them both off at a different friend’s house, Bucky over at mine and Becca at her friend Ashley’s. Bucky had just been dropped off at my house, and they got hit on the way to drop off Becca. The drunk driver, of course, walked away with no more than a cut on his forehead. Bucky’d almost been in that car. I think a part of him always blamed himself for their deaths.”

Steve closed off again, detailing these events like he was reading the weather, staring into his half finished cup of tea.

“He lived with us for a while after that, even though technically his guardian was his mom’s cousin who lived in Nebraska who he’d met once when he was seven, but he wasn’t about to leave Brooklyn and be shipped off to Nebraska of all places. She let him stay with us, though, so he could finish off his junior and senior year of high school.

“My Ma got sick, after that. Tuberculosis. Nothing they could do. She died shortly after we turned eighteen, and then we were truly on our own. We worked all sorts of odd jobs, anything we could get our hands on, because this was 2006 and there really wasn’t much work to find. We both went to a community college nearby, because we couldn’t afford anything else. Bucky was so smart, he could’ve gone anywhere he wanted, probably could’ve gotten a full ride too, or close to it. But he stayed with me. Said we were the only ones we had, we couldn’t lose each other too.”

This wasn’t going to have a happy ending; Sam could see that from a mile away. Steve slouched in his seat, somewhere far, far away. This was poking at a wound that hadn’t healed properly, leaving it jagged and scarred.

“Then Bucky went to war. He died October 3rd, 2009.”

Ah. Sam could see now how Bucky coming back from the dead after five years could make things ‘complicated’. It also explained why SHIELD could be involved, since that sounded like there some shady business afoot, and if there was ever an organization that fed off shady business, it was SHIELD.

Steve grew quiet and didn’t say anything for a long time.

“But now he’s back,” Sam prompted.

“They had him,” he murmured, “for five years and one month.”

Sam wasn’t going to bother asking who, exactly, had Bucky.

“And he came back two weeks ago?”

Steve blinked and refocused on Sam. “Yeah.”

“I imagined he’s changed a lot. How did he react to seeing you again?”

“He—” Steve took a shaky breath and pressed his lips together, clenching his trembling hand into a fist. “He didn’t know me.”

Oh man, Sam felt for this guy, he really did. He could tell Steve was just barely holding himself together, and Sam knew exactly how it felt to lose someone so close to you like that so suddenly. He wouldn’t even know what he’d do if Riley somehow came back from the dead like that. No wonder Steve seemed so lost when he came in.

“You mean he didn’t recognize you?”

“Yeah. It was… there was…” he paused, thinking, before finally deciding on, “forced amnesia.”

“Forced amnesia,” Sam repeated, making sure he heard correctly.

“He didn’t remember anything. He looked right at me and he didn’t even know me.”

Okay, Sam was ready to concede this wasn’t abuse like he first thought. He was also ready to admit that being a certified councilor probably didn’t qualify him for dealing with shit like ‘forced amnesia’ — no seriously, what the _fuck_ did that even mean? Probably something painful and traumatic as hell, he was sure. Didn’t mean that Steve hadn’t been through shit and needed someone to talk to, though.

“And how have you been holding up since then?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m fine.”

Uh-huh. If Steve were really ‘fine’, Sam would eat his left shoe.

“That’s a lot to happen in a really short time period. It takes time to process going through trauma like that.”

“Bucky’s got it worse. I gotta be strong. I gotta be there for him.”

Steve wouldn’t meet his eye, but at least he didn’t protest that it had been traumatic for him, which was something.

“So he’s the only one who’s allowed to be hurt? Steve, going through bad shit is not a competition. You’ll dig your own grave if you keep thinking like that. You’re allowed to be _not okay_ after your best friend who you thought died five years ago — someone I’m sure you thought about and missed constantly — for him to suddenly walk back into your life, let alone not remembering you on top of that. If he’s allowed to feel shitty, then so are you. Doesn’t mean you still can’t be there for him, but Christ, Steve, running yourself into the ground isn’t going to help anybody, especially not you.”

He picked at the threads on his scarf and shivered again. And, _oh._ Sam wanted to hit his own forehead for not figuring it out sooner.

“Steve, are you sick?” 

He ducked his head.

“ _Steve,_ oh my god.”

“I had to come, alright?”

“Do you have a cold or something? You should be in bed, resting.”

“Uh, it’s, um, pneumonia, actually.”

“It’s twenty-five degrees outside and you were running around with _pneumonia_?”

“I took a bus!”

“Steve,” he said softly, “what the _fuck_ , man.”

“The fever’s gone and I’m on the last of my antibiotics. I’m almost over it!

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. You’d think after two tours of being a pararescue in Afghanistan he’d be used to dumbass white boys and their dumbass ideas, but even now they still managed to amaze him.

“I’m driving you home or wherever you’re supposed to be after this.”

“Sam, you really don’t—”

“Don’t what, let you go out by yourself and find out tomorrow they found your frozen ass in a ditch somewhere? Nuh-uh, man.”

“I can take a cab, really, I don’t want to trouble you.”

“Nah, you ain’t getting outta this one. Think of me like that Mom Friend at parties that makes sure everyone gets their drunk ass home and in their own bed, except this time it’s their sick ass.”

Sam glared at Steve, daring him to argue. Jesus, why did people have to be so hardheaded about accepting a little help?

Steve relented. “I owe you for this, Sam. I really do.”

“You can repay me by, you know, _not dying_.” He paused, twisting his mouth a little. “We might as well keep talking about your Bucky situation, since you’re already here — don’t look so surprised, I’m not _heartless_ — how exactly did you meet up again, if he didn’t know who you were?”

Steve looked sheepishly at Sam, like he knew Sam wasn’t going to like whatever he had to say. Sam raised one eyebrow, waiting.

“So, you know that pattern of mine I told you about.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, there was this… I thought it was a mugging at first, but it wasn’t. I wasn’t supposed to even be there, just at the wrong place at the wrong time. So, long story short, Bucky tried to strangle me, then he killed four terrorists in my apartment to save my life, and now we’re in SHIELD custody.”

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s not something you can ‘long story short’.”

“Except I’m not _allowed_ to tell the whole story.” He sighed in frustration. “Basically, the terrorists forced Bucky to — to do stuff, bad stuff, but Bucky didn’t have a _choice_ , he couldn’t remember anything! He nearly killed me, because he was supposed to, but he _didn’t_ , and I sort of made him go AWOL from the bad guys because of it. Somewhere Bucky remembered — remembers me, I know he does, because he saved my life. He remembered my inhaler for me,” he said, voice cracking. He swallowed harshly.

“He’s been a POW for five years, Sam. They _tortured_ him. They made him forget — they made him do terrible things, and he just… he’s in the custody of SHIELD right now, treated no better than a criminal and I’m the only one who’s trying to help him, it’s up to me to convince SHIELD and Bucky that he is, in fact, Bucky, and that he was forced to do those terrible things and that he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t even know his own _name_ , Sam! I’ve tried to talk to him, but I don’t know how. What do I say to him after all of this? After everything he’s been through?”

He paused, pressing his knuckles to his mouth and squeezing his eyes closed. He stayed like that for a few moments, until his staggered breaths tuned into the meter ticking in his head.

“I don’t know what to do, Sam,” Steve said, face crumpling. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Like he said, Sam would be the first one to say that he is nowhere near qualified enough to handle this. And, like he thought, ‘forced amnesia’ was some fucked up shit to do a person, to make him forget his own name, Jesus Christ. No wonder Steve went against the weather and sickness to get some help, because how was he supposed to know what to do in that situation? How was anyone?

“Well, what you _want_ to do?”

Steve blinked at him, surprised. “I want to save him, somehow.”

Oh no. Sam was such a sucker for strays, especially when they had been dragged through the wringer and were doing everything they could to hold on. Sam had a pattern of his own, you see, and collecting people who’d been beaten down but stood up every time without fail was his pattern, goddammit.

“Okay then, let’s figure out how to save your boy.”

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sam "what am i getting myself into" wilson
> 
> i'm agentrainycarter on tumblr!!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wondered for a brief moment how weird his life had become, to have someone like Agent Romanov as his personal chauffeur. Not that he really thought of her like that, more than likely she was annoyed that she had to babysit someone as lowly as Steve, but it certainly was not something most people got to experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad people were happy about Sam!!! I have to include my bae in all my things, so there will be more of him I promise. I love your comments they really do make me smile something stupid.
> 
> I might also need to add slowburn as one of the tags I'm so sorry this story has gotten completely out of hand it wasn't supposed to be like this (it was only a kiss) (it was only a kiss)
> 
> also that civil war trailer I'm dying I'm dead goodbye cruel world come and cry with me I'm agentrainycarter on tumblr

It turned out that Steve didn’t need a ride after all, because the Black Widow was waiting for him outside the VA.

He wondered for a brief moment how weird his life had become, to have someone like Agent Romanov as his personal chauffeur. Not that he really thought of her like that, more than likely she was annoyed that she had to babysit someone as lowly as Steve, but it certainly was not something most people got to experience.

She pulled up to the curb, revving the engine, and rolled down the passenger side window.

“I’m looking for a short hospital escapee, you wouldn’t happen to know where I’d find him, would you?”

“Hah hah,” Steve said, walking up to the shiny black sports car. He turned back to Sam, who was looking at both the car and driver appreciatively. “Thanks, but it looks like I won’t be needing that ride after all.”

“No you won’t,” he said. “ _Damn_ ,” he murmured under his breath.

“Hey,” she said to Sam as Steve slid into the car. He raised a hand to Sam in goodbye.

They drove off, leaving Sam standing on the sidewalk outside the VA center, and he tugged his scarf away from his neck in relief. Steve was so indebted to him at this point, after probably wasting his time for a few hours. He held on tightly to the little slip of paper that had Sam’s number on it, tucked safely inside his jacket pocket. Sam had been very clear that there was no guarantee that anything he suggested would work, and that he was vastly under qualified to tackle something as messy as ‘forced amnesia’, but Steve was grateful for literally any and all the help he could get.

He was also grateful that Agent Romanov showed up when she did. He really did not want Sam to have to drive him back to the Triskelion, nor did he want to take the bus again, because the trip there had wiped him out, not that he was going to admit it. Sitting down in the sports car was a relief compared to the hard metal lunch chairs in the cafeteria. He hadn’t lied to Sam that the fever was gone, but pneumonia was not something to be trifled with and could take weeks to get back to normal. He’d only been awake for about five hours and was ready to pass out for the next twelve.

“So how was your trip?”

Steve glanced over at Agent Romanov. She’d straightened her red hair today. He still didn’t really know where he stood with her, or what she thought of the whole Winter Soldier thing. Barton had made it pretty clear that he believed Steve at least (whether or not he was going to help was another matter), but he had only seen her once since that night two weeks ago. Not that he’d really gotten to talk to her then.

“It was good. Informative.”

“Think it’ll help?”

“I hope so.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll try something else.”

“It’s not going to be easy. Especially since his hands didn’t come away clean.”

“They weren’t his actions.”

“Weren’t they, though?”

Steve had been nearly dozing off against the seat, but he forced his eyes back open so he could give Agent Romanov the dirtiest side eye he could manage.

“No, they weren’t, because Bucky had no say. You don’t blame the gun, you blame the person holding the gun. They messed with his mind, forced him to forget himself and everything he stood for so they would have complete control. You don’t blame abuse victims for the abuse they suffered and I’m not going to let Bucky be scapegoated for Hydra’s crimes.”

“I’d have to argue you’re a little biased in this situation.”

“I’d defend him even if he wasn’t my best friend.”

“Really.”

“Someone taking away another’s autonomy in order to subdue and control them, to use and abuse them, is an irredeemably vile act that happens far too often. What the victim has to do to survive is ultimately the fault of the person who gave them no other choice. And in this case I mean there was honestly no choice, because the victim wasn’t given the free will of deciding their actions for themselves. There was only ‘obey me’, because the victim to them was no more than a puppet, to be pointed and fired at the abuser’s whim. The only difference with Bucky is that Hydra made this much more personal to me.”

She went quiet for a moment.

“I suppose having to bury your best friend would do that.”

Steve turned towards the window.

“It would be a shame to waste such a nice funeral.”

He scoffed. “They told me on Saturday, buried his left arm on Sunday. I was one of four people there.”

“Isn’t that illegal? Shouldn’t there be an entire procession or something like that?”

He took a deep breath.

“As of January 1, 2000, Section 578 of Public Law 106-65 of the National Defense Authorization Act mandates that the Secretary of Defense shall ensure that, upon request, a funeral honors detail is provided for the funeral of any veteran. At least two members of the funeral honors detail for a veteran's funeral shall be members of the armed forces, at least one of whom shall be a member of the armed force of which the veteran was a member.”

“You know that from memory?”

“A funeral honors detail shall, at a minimum, perform at the funeral a ceremony that includes the folding of a United States flag and presentation of the flag to the veteran's family and the playing of Taps. Unless a bugler is a member of the detail, the funeral honors detail shall play a recorded version of Taps using audio equipment, which the detail shall provide if adequate audio equipment is not otherwise available for use at the funeral.”

“Impressive.”

“I should have it memorized by now. I quoted it enough times to anyone who would listen to me, and to those that wouldn’t.” 

“So I’m guessing none of that happened for Barnes.”

He shrugged. He was so tired. The outside world blurred past the window.

“No one cared.”

“Not even his unit? What about the soldier whose life he saved?” 

“Ironically, she was the only person who bothered.”

“She?"

“Yeah. First Sergeant Sharon Carter. She was nice.”

Agent Romanov’s sharp green eyes glanced at him, but he didn’t notice.

“Sharon Carter.”

“Mm-hm.” He rested his aching head against the cold window, closing his eyes. “She thought I didn’t invite her ‘cause I blamed her.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“There was nothing she could do. I’m not gonna blame her for something she had no control over."

“That’s noble of you.”

He shrugged.

It was quiet for a time, and Steve drifted somewhere between asleep and awake, unable to fall completely asleep and sliding back to consciousness whenever the car turned.

“Rogers,” Agent Romanov said.

He wasn’t sure where he was. His mouth tasted like cotton and his head ached, his whole body ached from… whatever. Words and thoughts were difficult concepts to hold onto. Maybe the fever had come back, after all.

“Rogers, wake up.”

He cracked his eyes open. He had curled forward so his head partially rested against the doorframe. The car wasn’t moving. Maybe. Probably. He still didn’t know where he was. He lifted his head, and oh, he had missed the lightheadedness that he’d been relieved of for approximately thirty seconds, and yawned. He had a crick in his neck too, son of a nutcracker. That’s what he got for sort of falling asleep against a car door. At least he figured out he was in some kind of parking garage. Probably for the Triskelion, not that he’d had cause to see it before.

“So I may have pulled some strings to get Barnes out of that cell.”

He froze for a moment before sitting stock straight and whipping around to stare at Agent Romanov. Surely he hadn’t heard things right.

“Did that finally wake you up?” she asked, looking slightly amused.

“Move him where? What do I have to do?”

“I spoke with Tony Stark to see if we could house a brainwashed assassin wanted in at least twelve different countries in his Manhattan skyscraper.”

Steve raised his eyebrows.

“And what did he say?”

“He asked if I was at least seventy-eight percent sure he wouldn’t try to kill us and if he was potty trained. When I said yes, he said ‘well I already house you and Barton, so why not? Three’s company after all.’”

Steve stared. Jesus, he and Bucky might be living with Tony Stark, aka CEO of Stark Industries, aka Billionaire Playboy, aka Iron Man. This was too good to be true. It had to be.

“What’s the catch?”

She leaned back in her seat.

“We need information. Anything. Names, descriptions of people, anything and everything he will give us.”

“Okay. Okay I’ll ask.”

“And in Stark Tower he’ll be under house arrest. He’ll be restricted to one floor and Barton or I will be there to monitor his behavior. But he’ll be out of that cell and he’ll get the left arm back if he wants it.”

That was probably the best damn news he’d gotten in a really, really long time. He didn’t think he could convey just how grateful he felt towards Agent Romanov, didn’t think there was anything he could ever do to pay her back for this. He took a shaky breath.

“Well, it’s not Brooklyn, but it’ll do.”

~*~

“Carter.”

“Romanov.”

The two women sized each other up, before breaking out into grins. They embraced, Natasha placing a kiss to Sharon’s cheek and then sitting down in the charming little hole in the wall café that Natasha had found.

“It’s good to see you. How long as it been?” Sharon asked, flipping her blond hair back and subtly adjusting her jacket where the guns where hidden under her arms.

“Too long,” Natasha answered.

“That’s what we get for having clean up these boys’ messes.”

They chatted, catching up from the last time they had seen each other, which had been on a mission out in Istanbul. Not that any one other than a few people in SHIELD had known they were there, nor did anyone but those few people in SHIELD knew exactly how classified documents of nuclear weapons that a local terrorist group were building were stolen, nor did anyone but those few people in SHIELD knew how close Istanbul came to being destroyed. But none of that actually happened and there was no evidence that anyone could prove otherwise.

“So,” Sharon said after their meals were brought to the table, “are you going to tell me the real reason you wanted to meet me today?”

“What, we can’t just have brunch because we’re both in town?”

“You brought me to a café neither of us have been to before after changing the location to meet up at three different times. You’re worried about being followed.”

“I’m always worried about being followed.”

She raised one eyebrow.

“Fine,” Natasha acquiesced. “I want you to tell me about Steve Rogers.”

Sharon was good, but Natasha had trained her, so she could tell that she had caught Sharon off-guard, could see the slightest change of her expression so it masked the surprise, the tensing of her hand around her fork.

“There’s not much to say.”

“Now I know that’s not true.”

She hesitated, eyeing Natasha.

“I’ll be honest, I’m more concerned about how Rogers got on your radar.”

“He’s still alive.”

“That’s not entirely reassuring.”

Natasha leaned back a little in her chair, and Sharon knew what that meant: it was classified, and maybe Natasha will tell her if she said her piece first.

“It was five years ago.”

“Funny how the past has its way of rearing its ugly head again.”

“Yeah. Real hilarious.”

Sharon took another bite of her breakfast omelet, biding her time and tried to figure out what Natasha’s angle was. There was only one reason that Rogers and her had even crossed paths, and if Natasha wasn’t going to tell her why, she was going to have to do some digging of her own.

“Is this about Steve Rogers, or is it about Sergeant James Barnes?”

God, she had not said that name aloud in so long.

“It seems that, in this case, you cannot discuss one without the other.”

Natasha had already spoken to Rogers about this, obviously; otherwise she wouldn’t have known that Sharon was involved that day. Whatever Natasha was looking into had to do with Barnes’ death. It had to be, because what else would the point be of talking to Rogers, a regular old civilian?

“It was October 3rd, 2009, in Kamdesh Afghanistan. Three hundred Taliban tried to storm the American Combat Post, splitting us up and trying to take out our forces. Nine Americans lost their lives and another twenty-seven were wounded. Sergeant Barnes was one of the nine. I met Rogers once I finished my tour three months later. I went to apologize, since I was there when Barnes died and was completely useless in trying to help him. We got drunk, discussed old times, and I never saw him again.”

Natasha sipped her coffee.

“You could learn that much on Wikipedia. I’m more interested with the exact details of Barnes’ death.”

“There was a grenade. He pushed me out of the way. There wasn’t anything I could do at the time. Another soldier pulled me out and got me to safety. Or, somewhere saf _er_.”

“And there wasn’t anything else?” 

“Well, that’s what they say happened.”

“And what do you say happened?”

“Well, I don’t know, Natasha. Or, at least that’s what the shrink they made me see said, that due to the trauma of watching my fellow soldier die, I mixed things up in my head and made things up to suppress the truth.”

She wasn’t still bitter. Nope. Not at all.

“I’m not your shrink. I’m interested in what you saw. I’m interested in the truth.”

Sharon leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

“Why? Why now?”

“I can’t tell you, Sharon, but you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” she agreed. “What makes you think something different even happened?”

“I’ve been digging, pulling strings, you know how that goes. Some things aren’t adding up, and there are a lot of holes. One of them being how the soldier Barnes supposedly pushed out of the way isn’t named in any of the reports, so you can imagine my surprise when Rogers told me it was you.”

“And so what if it was?”

“And we both know there’s no such thing as a grenade that will disintegrate everything but his left arm. I want to know what happened.”

She gave Natasha a look.

“I’ll owe you.”

Sharon uncrossed her arms and sighed. “Fine,” she spit. “But you’ll owe me big time for this.” She’d spill her story, but she wouldn’t be happy about it. Natasha took a bite of her Panini and waited.

“It was Barnes’ turn to be on watch. I couldn’t sleep, even though I was on third shift. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but it was quiet, and Barnes was always good at cards, so I decided to keep him company. It was hot, but we were tucked away in a corner in the shade, so it wasn’t that bad. Out of everyone in the unit, he was the most tolerable. Might have even considered him a friend, if we’d both made it out of there.

“We heard it first. The Taliban hit the west side, we were on the east, so the first thing we noticed was the echo of the explosion, and we felt the ground shake. We heard the Colonel on the radio, directing our unit. I was supposed to have been on the west, on the front end, but once the Colonel found out where I was, told me to stick with Barnes, since we couldn’t leave our back end undefended. So I readied my gun and watched Barnes’ six, and that’s when… well, that’s when things went from shitty to downright unbelievable.”

She could see it still so clearly in her head, even after all this time. How the sun felt on her face, how she could feel the sweat drip down her spine, the taste of that morning’s shitty coffee in her mouth, the expanse of the sky above her, unbelievably blue. Barnes, in full gear, right beside her, his breathing quiet and measured, sniper rifle poised in the ready position, watching the perimeter through the scope. The cards they were playing with fluttered in the breeze as the dark smoke plumed overhead, the ground shaking with every explosion, the muffled sounds of gunfire in the distance. She knew it would smell of death in the morning.

“There was this man. White guy, mid forties, bald, lines of scars in the left side of his face, tall. Dressed in green with a fucking monocle on his right eye. To this day I don’t know how he managed to get through the security lines or how we didn’t even know he was there until he was almost on top of us. We fought him, but Natasha… he wasn’t normal. He wasn’t _human._ He was too strong, too fast, and even though Barnes and I were the best fighters, we were barely able to keep out of the way of… he had this, this claw thing, on his right hand, that could deflect bullets. He punched a hole through the concrete wall with it, where my head had been a second before. We tried to call for backup, to warn the rest of our unit, but our comms had gone dead somehow, even though they’d been working a moment before.

“He knocked the gun out of Barnes’ hand and — and you know, the second before something terrible is going happen, everything just sort of slows down? He was about to punch Barnes, to kill him. I’d been knocked to the ground, so I managed to grab one of our guns and I shot him. I didn’t kill him, he almost dodged it, but it grazed his face from the middle of his right cheek up to his forehead. There was blood everywhere, I probably blinded his right eye and broke his stupid monocle, and he was pissed.

“I stood up, tried to regroup, but he came after me. Barnes pushed me out of the way. It — Natasha, he — the claw _ripped through_ Barnes’ arm. Sliced right through it. I’d — I’d never — there was _so much_ blood, and it took a moment for it to register, but then Barnes started screaming and… the only thing that was running through my mind is that I had to stop the bleeding, somehow. I had to save him.

“But I had to deal with the motherfucker with the claw arm first. He was partially blinded, and also bleeding a lot from the wound I gave him, which allowed me to finally get a shot on him. I put three bullets in his chest, but the motherfucker wouldn’t go down. I’d run out of bullets. I think he used the last of his strength to throw me against the wall. I got knocked out. I don’t know for how long, but the next thing I knew I was waking up and staring straight at Barnes’ left arm, two pools of blood, and no bodies.”

It felt real and unreal at the same, it was impossible, yet it _happened._ The man had been there, and then he wasn’t. Barnes had been there. He’d been real and solid and alive, not just someone she’d made up in her head. He’d saved her life, because if the claw hadn’t ripped through his arm, it would have ripped through her skull.

She still heard his screams in her nightmares sometimes.

“Well,” Natasha said, who’d been silent the entire time, “they certainly forgot a few details in the report.”

Sharon scoffed. “Ya think?”

“You were a perfect witness, and they didn’t believe you?”

“They _ignored_ me. Made me see shrinks who didn’t listen to me. Told me there was another guy from our unit there who’d seen the whole thing, that _obviously_ I was just making this up. There’s no way a man like that could exist.”

“The Hulk’s not supposed to exist either.”

“Yeah, well maybe if the big green monster had existed back then, someone might have thought my story was credible.”

“No one believed you?”

“No. Well, there were a few at first, but the ‘real’ story had spread, and that’s what people accepted. It was… it was weird, going back, you know? The death of the Sergeant in our unit had barely caused a ripple in its wake. At the time, I’d thought, everyone deals with grief differently, which was why they didn’t talk about it. Maybe I was the weird one, by being so affected by it. I mean, it was because I was so emotional that my story was discredited. Maybe my story _wasn’t_ right, after all.”

“You saw someone’s arm get ripped off right in front of you. It would be worrisome if it _hadn’t_ affected you.”

She shrugged. “Looking back on it, the men just… didn’t care. No one spoke of him. The other eight, they were talked about, memorialized, mourned. Not Barnes. No one seemed to give a damn. It got to the point where I was nearly convinced I made it all up in my head.”

“Is that why you got out?”

Sharon pursed her lips. “Yes and no. No, because I was able to move past it and keep working. Yes, because it had ruined my rep. I could hear the whispers behind my back, and I could see it in their eyes. The men would follow my orders, but they didn’t respect me. My commanders wouldn’t listen to my opinion anymore, unless I kissed their ass, and then _maybe_ they’d hear me out. I wasn’t there to kiss ass. I was there to kick ass and further my career. And it fucking sucked, because it felt like I had two options, either kiss their ass and hope I might get promoted, or speak out and be pushed aside.”

“So you quit.”

“ _Honorably discharged_ is what I believe it’s called. I thought of my Great Aunt Peggy, actually, I never met her — she died in WWII — but my grandfather used to tell these stories about her, about how she used to get in so many fights because she hated ultimatums. She’d just look at them and go, ‘what, and those are my only two options?’ and do whatever she wanted as a third option.”

Natasha let out a huff of a laugh. “Now I can relate to that."

“I know. I wish I could’ve met her. You should hear some of the stories — she’s basically the whole reason I signed up in the army in the first place. So I thought, ‘kiss ass or be ignored? Those are my only two options?’ and signed up with SHIELD instead. I mean, when my Colonel asked if I wanted to sign up for another tour, I may have told him to shove it up his ass, but that’s besides the point.”

“Well, SHIELD got a great addition due to their carelessness, Agent 13.”

“Yeah, and how lucky I was to have caught the Black Widow’s eye my first week of training.”

“I only liked you because you laughed at my Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.”

“I laughed at how _bad_ your impression was.”

“Please, all my impressions are spot on.”

“Uh-huh.”

She bared a toothy smile. “Careful there Sharon, I can still kick your ass.”

“Save it for the bedroom, sweetie,” Sharon said, but in a terrible, exaggerated Arnold Schwarzenegger impression and batted her eyelashes, causing both of them burst into giggles.

“That was so bad, oh my God,” Natasha said as the waiter came to refill their coffees.

Sharon stirred the creamer and sugar into her coffee, mostly since black coffee was all they had to drink on their tours, and now she drank it sugary and sweet just because she could.

Her blue eyes scrutinized Natasha. “So you believe me, then.” It wasn’t a question.

“Due to recent events, it makes more sense than the story the put in the reports.”

“Am I allowed to know about these recent events?”

“No.”

“Will you tell me anyway?”

Natasha paused.

“Soon. Probably.”

That was as good as an answer as she was going to get.

“Tell me about meeting Rogers.”

Sharon sighed.

“I got back to New York in February. Even though I was overseas, I was expecting something, some kind of notice of a funeral or a date or something. When I didn’t, I figured that his friend hadn’t wanted me there. He’d talk about Rogers, sometimes, and I dunno, I guess I’m a masochist and decided to check in on him. He was all Barnes had back home, and now Barnes was gone, and I was partially responsible. I felt responsible, anyway.

“I don’t know what I was expecting, but Rogers wasn’t it. He was — he was nice. Sad, but nice. He let me in and told me about the funeral — if you could even call it that — we drank the whiskey I brought and talked, and I ended up passing out there. I left in the morning with a hangover, feeling even worse than when I arrived. That was about it.”

“The whole lack of a proper funeral is bugging me. Seems to me someone went through a lot of effort to cover up that Barnes had ever existed.”

“I know, right? I looked into it. I figured, since I was in SHIELD, I had access to information I otherwise wouldn’t have so I shouldn’t waste this opportunity. I couldn’t find _anything_. In _any_ of the reports. And that includes the stuff I hacked in to. He was hardly a footnote in files about Kamdesh, and my account of what happened wasn’t even mentioned. After that, I hit a dead end. I couldn’t find anything. Not about what happened to Barnes’ body, or anything about the man with the claw hand.”

“Well, considering I have a much higher security clearance than you did when you first started, I can say that’s pretty accurate. There’s hardly anything at all about Barnes in the system. But now I have new leads.”

“Due to recent events?”

“Due to recent events.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes.

“Do you think I’m a bad person because I stopped looking into it? I sort of just… gave up. Focused on my career. I let Barnes just become a bad memory. I should’ve… I don’t know. The guy saved my life. I owed him more than that.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sharon. I know it doesn’t make you feel better, but it really wasn’t. What happened with Barnes was bigger than that day, bigger than you could have stopped. I think if you had tried to insist on the truth…”

Natasha’s phone beeped, and she paused to look at it. Sharon could fill in the blanks.

“Time for the check?”

“I’ll get it, as you’ve been wonderfully helpful today.”

“Well, you know I live my life to please you.”

“And I wouldn’t expect anything less, because I need you to do something else for me.”

“My work is never done.”

Natasha paid and they bundled up in their jackets and scarves, before heading out to brace the winter’s cold. Honestly, a polar vortex? Who came up with these names?

They stood outside in the frigid air for a moment, snowflakes fluttering in the air as the people hustled around them, heads down and shoulders hunched, trying to hide from the wind that cut through their clothes, no matter how many layers they put on. Their breaths clouded around them and their noses froze instantly. Well, actually just Sharon’s nose. Natasha was impervious to the supreme cold because she was Russian and Sharon was incredibly jealous.

“Tell me, Natasha,” Sharon said, turning to her. Her cheeks were nearly as red as her hair. “How deep are you digging? How messy is this going to get?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, and that sort of answered the question, because if Natasha didn’t know, that didn’t mean anything good.

“You call me, though, if shit hits the fan. I’ll have your back — not because I like you or anything, but because I want to rub it in those assholes’ faces who ruined my prestigious military career that I was right.”

Natasha grinned. “Mm, the way you hold grudges really turns me on.”

“Now that I learned from my mother,” Sharon replied and they laughed.

“I’ll see you later,” Natasha said.

“Yeah, see you.”

They embraced, and Natasha tucked herself into Sharon’s neck.

“Watch your back,” Natasha whispered in her ear, barely loud enough to be heard. “SHIELD isn’t safe.”

They pulled back and waved goodbye, going their separate ways and disappearing in the crowd.

Shit storm, Sharon would decide later, was probably an understatement.

~*~

“Hey Buck,” Steve said, walking into the cell — hopefully for the last time. It was the day after he met Sam, who he’d spent texting last night trying to prepare how to talk to Bucky. Barton and Hill, along with two other SHIELD agents, were outside, watching this go down. Romanov had disappeared somewhere last night kind of literally, he’d turned his back and then she was gone. He’d figured she’d want to be here for this, but what did he know?

Barton had been a semi-permanent shadow in his life so far, popping up and disappearing himself at random times, so he wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t here. Hill was anxious to get information from the Winter Soldier, and had probably regretted making any sort of bargain with Steve, but here they were.

“Can I sit down?” he asked like he did every time. And, like every time, Bucky said nothing. Steve sat down anyway. He was vocal when he didn’t want Steve there, so he could only interpret silence as a begrudging ‘okay’.

He and Bucky sat three feet apart against the wall at the back of the cell, Bucky on his left. Steve had choked down the urge to touch him, to reach out and comfort him. Mostly. He didn’t know if he felt further from Bucky now that they were in the same room or when he stood six feet above Bucky’s grave.

He couldn’t tell if Bucky was in better or worse shape than they’d met in his apartment. Bucky was scruffy, dirty, his skin pallid and the bags so dark under his eyes they looked like bruises. His shoulder length hair was greasy and in desperate need of a cut, and since he hardly moved all day Steve didn’t know how the white shirt got so dirty, which, if he looked hard enough, he could see the outline of the metal shoulder underneath. He also still had no idea how they did bathroom breaks, since it was obvious Bucky hadn’t wet himself or pissed in the corner.

Steve hoped there was some sort of large bathtub or Jacuzzi in the floor Stark was letting them stay in so Bucky could relax and just soak. Maybe they’d run away to a beach somewhere, somewhere private. They could lie in hammocks, get facials, do the thing where you put cucumbers of their eyes, the whole nine yards. Maybe Romanov could pull some more strings and make it happen. Hell, she could come too if she wanted.

“I have good news,” he said, breaking the silence. He was excited and relieved to actually have _something_. “I have a way to get you out of this cell."

Bucky narrowed his eyes. More often than not, Bucky refused to say anything at all while Steve was here, and even if he did it was usually just a one-word reply. Steve was certain that he’d break that streak today.

“You remember Tony Stark? You know, CEO of Stark Industries, makes weapons for the government, super genius. Well he doesn’t really do that anymore, the make weapons part, anyway. He made this crazy robot suit and now he flies around as Iron Man and tries to save people with some other heroes. He’s going to let us stay in his skyscraper in Manhattan.”

Bucky just stared at him through strands of scraggly hair.

“I know, I can’t believe it either. You’re still going to be under arrest, technically, but you’ll get to be in a whole floor instead of this stupid cell. And I’ll be there. And you can have the left arm back, if you want it. It’s not — it’s not Brooklyn, it’s not _home,_ but it’s... a step in the right direction.

“The catch is that they want information. They’ve actually been wanting me to question you about where you’ve been and what you know this whole time, but I haven’t. You’re more than just a source of information, you’re a real person whose been through hell the past five years, and I didn’t want you to think the only reason I came down here was to use you. I think you’ve had enough of people doing whatever they want to you.”

“Who promised you?”

It still surprised Steve whenever Bucky said anything; it felt like a treat that he didn’t quite deserve.

“Agent Romanov. She’s the one with the red hair.”

“She lies.”

“Not about this.”

“You don’t know.”

“Okay, you’re right. I don’t know for sure. Maybe they’re just using me to get you to talk. Or, maybe they’re using me to get you to talk and they’ll let you out of here. I think it’s worth the risk.”

“You trust people to do the right thing,” Bucky said, voice hardly more that a whisper. “They don’t.”

It was the most he had said out of all the times Steve had visited him. Steve looked at him, the body and the mind that had been ripped and torn apart and hurt in more ways than Steve could imagine, than he _wanted_ to imagine. He had every reason to distrust those around him, to distrust Steve. Romanov could have lied, yes, about everything. It did sound too good to be true, of course Tony Stark wouldn’t house them in his Manhattan Skyscraper. It was likely she hadn’t even talked to him. What connection could she have to Stark, anyway?

His gut instinct, on the other hand, told him to trust, to take that leap of faith, and his gut was never wrong. But this wasn’t up to Steve’s gut.

“It’s ultimately up to you. I’m just the messenger. I’m not here to make you talk, or force ultimatums on you. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you want to keep quiet, then I’ll keep you company. It’s your choice, Buck.”

Sam had stressed the importance of giving Bucky the choice of whether or not to take this deal, and had forbid Steve from trying to convince him one way or another. The last thing Bucky needed was the one person he might have an inkling of trust in trying to manipulate his choices.

They sat in silence. Steve didn’t know what to say now; the ball was in Bucky’s court. He really hoped that Bucky would trust him, would speak up, if only to give dirt on Hydra so the good guys could bring them down. He wished he could do it himself, tear apart their system and hurt the people who hurt Bucky. He knew vengeance wouldn’t solve anything, but god, there was a part of him that wanted to burn those people to the ground. They didn’t deserve to walk around while Bucky sat in a ten-by-ten foot cell practically on trial for surviving their abuse.

“Leave,” Bucky said.

Steve glanced at him. “Okay, Buck,” and hauled himself off the floor. Sam said he’d been doing this right at least, listening to Bucky when he wanted him to leave, but always coming back. Bucky needed some kind of consistency in his life and following through on promises promoted trust.

Barton walked over to the controls, lowering the door and Bucky slammed him against the wall, knocking the wind out of Steve, his hand like a vice on his chest.

Steve froze from shock, his brain needing a moment to catch up on what happened. He heard guns clicking and he thinks that was Hill yelling something but the hand pushing on his chest distracted him. Bucky stood poised hardly a foot away, close enough that Steve could feel his body heat, his palm warm even through Steve’s sweaters. His eyes were dark, boring into his skull, making him feel naked under that stare and Bucky had never looked so intense before, and that’s because this wasn’t Bucky, Steve realized, this was the Winter Soldier looking back at him.

“I could kill you,” he said flatly, his hand slowly sliding up towards Steve’s throat, “faster than they could stop me.”

Steve didn’t dare blink or look away, but he could feel his heart beating rabbit quick against the palm of Bucky’s hand, the sweat starting to drip under his arms and down his back. He couldn’t quite draw breath, but tried to keep them as even as he could anyway. He raised his right hand to signal for Hill and Barton to wait

“But you won’t,” Steve said, voice rough. He swallowed as the hand crept higher still. “If you were going to kill me you’d have done it already.”

“Maybe I’m just biding my time,” he said quietly, the ice in his eyes burning into Steve.

The hand slid over his collarbone and Steve’s heart pounded so hard surely Bucky could probably hear it. Forget about regulating his breathing, he suddenly found he couldn’t breathe at all.

“Maybe I’m using you to get out of here.”

And the hand moved over his throat, Bucky pressing his thumb against Steve’s Adam’s apple, though not hard enough to choke, his other fingers curving around and Steve wondered if he was going to have the fingerprint bruises mirrored on both sides of his neck now.

“Maybe I'm just going to kill you and run the second we get out of here.”

Steve swallowed again, mouth dry. Bucky was testing him. He knew this logically, but his body wouldn’t get the memo. _Breathe,_ he told himself, _fucking breathe before you pass out._

“You won’t.”

His thumb pressed just a touch harder. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Steve said, forcing himself to hold his head high instead of shrink back. His right fist was clenched tight to try to stop it from shaking. “I know you.”

Bucky stayed impassive.

“You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

He tilted his head down a little. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m _not_ ,” he said quietly. Steve unclenched his fist and tried to suck in a breath before touching Bucky’s arm with trembling fingers, smoothing his fingertips against his skin and sliding them up before resting his hand on Bucky’s wrist. The pulse was there was slow and steady. “I’m not lying.”

He stared hard at Steve, looking for something. Steve tried to show him with his eyes what his body wouldn’t, that he knew Bucky wouldn’t kill him, that Steve trusted Bucky even now. Bucky broke eye contact to glance at Steve’s hand around his wrist. His gaze flicked back up and Steve knew he didn’t believe him.

As quickly as Bucky had pinned Steve, he let go and backed towards the opposite wall. Steve slumped, needing the wall for support as his knees shook, and suppressed the urge to cough and gasp even though his body jerked in protest.

“Back against the wall,” Hill ordered, holding her gun up. “Rogers, this way.”

Bucky tilted his head a little and appraised Steve. He paid Hill, the SHIELD agents, and Barton no mind.

“I’ll talk,” he said sharply. “But only to Romanov.”

Steve could have heard a pin drop. Sweat dripped down from his hairline, he didn’t think anyone even breathed for a moment, but Bucky seemed entirely nonplussed that there were two tazors, a gun, and a bow and arrow trained on him.

“Thank you,” Steve wheezed, still trying to suppress the urge to cough, and failing. He could let himself have the asthma attack after he got out of site of Bucky, but he couldn’t do it here, not now.

“Rogers!” Hill barked, jerking him into motion. “Step outside the cell _now_.”

Steve did as he was told, his fingers and toes starting to tingle from holding his breath so he wouldn’t start wheezing. The cell doors closed as soon as he was clear, and when he looked back, Bucky was sitting on the floor like he’d never moved at all.

Barton grabbed his arm and yanked him past the security door to the rest of the floor. Steve stumbled along, trying to count his breaths and stave off the asthma attack.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ Rogers, the hell kind of stunt was that?! Here I thought I was gonna have to start planning your funeral, and then I started planning my own funeral because Natasha would have killed me too, and I still haven’t decided what I want on my tombstone, I mean I’m partial to ‘here lies Clint Barton aka Hawkeye, an arrow ace that would punch you in the face,’ but then I was thinking we should be buried next to each other so my tombstone could say, ‘I’m only here because this asshole couldn’t go twenty-four hours without trying to do some life endangering shit’ and have an arrow pointing to your grave — are you dying? Again?”

Barton stopped abruptly, they were near the elevators now, and Steve put his hands on his knees, gasping and wheezing, _breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for four…_

 “Where’s your inhaler?” Barton asked as he patted down Steve’s clothes.

Steve pointed upward. Barton slapped his forehead and smoothed his hand down his face.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you always forgot it.”

“Just — give me a second — I’ll be fine,” he panted, leaning against the wall.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Barton said and crossed his arms. “You’re not actually dying, are you? ‘Cause it would be awkward if I just stood here and watched you die.”

“It would be — awkward if you — stood there and — told me to breathe.”

“Here lies Clint Barton, watched an asthmatic asphyxiate to death and his last words were ‘Just breathe, asshole.’”

Steve huffed out something that could’ve passed as a laugh, his breathing partially back under control. His throat and chest were still tight, and he would be in real trouble if he did anything else to set off an attack before he took his medicine. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and worked his throat, which felt like it could completely close up at any moment. It wasn’t a fun feeling.

“You did lie to him. You were afraid.”

Steve shook his head. “No.”

“You nearly pissed yourself in there! You can’t tell me you weren’t afraid.”

He shot a glare at Barton. “Not him. I’m not… afraid of him.”

“He nearly _killed_ you—”

“He was _testing_ me. He wasn’t going to kill me. I know so.”

“Yeah, sure pal.”

“It’s not him. I promise.”

“Are you sure you aren’t deluding yourself?”

“I don’t like,” Steve swallowed, hating that he had to admit it, “things against my…” he gestured to his neck.

Barton studied at him for a long moment, gaze lingering on the bruises wrapped around his throat. Steve maintained it looked worse than it was, since due to his anemia he bruised like a grape, but he had a hard time trying to convince anyone that.

“Well,” Barton conceded, “I guess I can give you that one.”

~*~

“I don’t like this,” Maria Hill said to Director Fury’s back from where she was sitting down opposite his desk. He stood facing the window, looking out over the expanse of the Potomac River, hands clasped behind his back.

“I know you don’t, and I appreciate your concern.”

“Are you gambling, sir?”

“Well you know me,” he said, finally turning to look at her. He sat down at his desk. “I’m a gambling man.”

“And what if he doesn’t want to work for you after all of this? What if he hasn’t actually broken his conditioning?”

“I’d like to think I’m better than Hydra, so I’m not going to try to control him or threaten him too much. I’ll let him stay at Avengers Tower because besides the Triskelion and the White House, that’s probably the most secure building in America, and nobody goes in or out without Stark knowing. I’ll even let him keep Rogers. I’m nice like that.”

“Being indebted is a powerful motivator,” Hill agreed. “They’re going to come after him. Hydra’s not going to like losing one of their top players, especially since they spent so much time and resources on him.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Hill scrutinized him, trying to work out his plan. “Then why not keep him here in D.C.? Here you have trained agents protecting this building, not vigilantes with too much time and money on their hands. I know you want him to defect like Romanov, but even with her we had her on lock down for much longer than two weeks.”

“I’ve got some plumbing problems at home. I don’t want to trouble our guest while I’m fixing the pipes.”

Ah. Hill understood, now.

“Need any help with those pipes, sir? I can be pretty handy around the house.”

“Not yet, Agent Hill, I still need to try the find the source of the breakage. I’ll call you when it’s ready to be fixed.”

“Yes sir. Is there something else I can do for you in the mean time?”

“Yes, actually. I was hoping you might run an errand for me.”

“Anything you need, sir.”

He pulled a file from out his desk and handed it to Hill. “There’s a doctor I’m looking for. Find him.”

She flipped it open, keeping her face carefully blank, before shutting it and tucking it under her arm as she stood up.

“Right away, sir.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Hill saluted and left his office. Fury turned back to the window, calculating just how far into the foundation those leaky pipes went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are happening! I mean there's lots of sitting around and talking, but? Things will happen.
> 
> Next chapter will have 100% more Bucky. It'll probably also be 100% sadder, because Bucky.
> 
> I'm agentrainycarter on tumblr!!!


End file.
